


We Are Vain and We Are Blind

by Vituperative_cupcakes



Category: Mindhunter (TV 2017)
Genre: Breathplay, Kissing, M/M, Mind Games, but this scene did...things to me okay?, headcanon: Holden is a sub, it's not my fault they have better chemistry than the actual love interest, look I realize the real Ed Kemper is a very very very very very bad man
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-03
Updated: 2017-11-03
Packaged: 2019-01-29 03:20:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12621996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vituperative_cupcakes/pseuds/Vituperative_cupcakes
Summary: An alternate take on the ending of episode ten





	We Are Vain and We Are Blind

**Author's Note:**

> again, I want to stress that I don't approve of anything the real Kemper did. Cameron Britton fucking slam dunked his performance and _that's_ who I'm writing about.

“Well now...that’s the truth.”

Kemper’s smell rolls over him, as overpowering as the hug itself. There’s hospital sterility there, but beneath that it’s the smell of the male animal, Kemper’s aroma that’s distinct as any fingerprint invading his nostrils as surely as the man himself invades Holden’s personal space.

Holden has lost himself. Only a moment ago he was struggling with his fight-or-flight response, but once enveloped by his smell, by his arms, by Kemper himself, his brain crashed. He can’t read Kemper. Thought he could, can’t. The hug was the biggest shock, like a missile breaching the glass-calm waters of the ocean only to explode in a shower of confetti. Kemper was playing this whole time, both sides of the board.

Kemper pats his back in a manner that would be soothing in any other situation. All it does is serve to remind Holden of the mass of him. The bulk. Holden can imagine the last moments of some pretty little coed now, all too well. Having your last sight be that genial mask with nothing behind the eyes, all riding atop a nearly seven-foot-tall giant’s body. And he’d gone after petit women.  _ God. _

Why  _ had  _ he come here? Why seek Kemper out again, some misplaced sense of responsibility for the man’s mental state?

No. Holden can finally admit the truth to himself. It was that same selfish impulse that drove him to seek comfort in trying times, to seek the closest thing to a friendly face he had right now.

Which was a convicted murderer.

Kemper stops patting and just hugs. He raises his face so that his nose just barely grazes the shorter man’s scalp. There’s a slight inhale.  _ Then you, too, would be with me in spirit. _ Holden can’t make himself move.

“Holden.” The name is felt more than heard, vibrating the skin on the top of his head that tightens in stimulus response. “What did you do with my cards?”

He can’t stop shaking. He can’t stop his voice from shaking. “I...I put them up.”

“Up. Up on the wall?”

“Y-yes.” His voice is a whisper. 

“To laugh at them?”

“No.” He’s able to put a little force into it.

Kemper draws away. Behind his fishbowl glasses, his eyes are black and cold and deep as the marianas trench. His breath puffs against Holden’s face as he speaks.

“Why, then?”

“To...I don’t know. No one’s ever sent me cards. Not ever.”

Kemper stares at him for a good long moment. Then the left side of his mouth lifts in a smile that does not touch his eyes.

“Well, I don’t send cards to just anyone.” He shifts, so that even more of his mass is pressed against Holden. Yes, he is slightly erect.

Holden realizes he is too.

“I knew who you were,” Kemper murmurs. His glasses are catching the light from the overhead bulbs, hiding his eyes.  “From that first second, when you told them to take the cuffs off my wrists. You like to think you’re in control. You like to think you like being in control. But we both know better...don’t we?”

With the crook of his right index finger, Kemper tilts Holden’s head back. Holden lets him.

“I was upset when you didn’t come by, I'll admit.” The tip of his finger travels the valleys of Holden’s trembling throat. “I was never angry at you, Holden, only disappointed by what I perceive as a deficit of gratitude. You do owe me a fair bit.”

Holden swallows. Kemper’s finger follows the bob of his adam’s apple, applying slight pressure.

“I enjoyed your company. And if you’re being truthful with yourself, I think you’ll find you enjoyed mine.” Kemper’s monotone drawl is hypnotic. It pins Holden in place now that the terror has dulled to...something. He can’t think, can’t name the storm of feelings bombarding his unresponsive brain. The finger presses harder, sliding down so it rests on Holden’s suprasternal notch.

“Do you ever ask yourself what’s keeping me from killing you? Think about it. I’m already behind bars for the rest of my natural life. What else can they do? Take away my TV privileges?”

Kemper tilts his face and sinks to Holden’s throat. There’s a touch of slightly moist lips. The tickle of his moustache. Holden waits for teeth to clamp on his throat. They never come.

Kemper withdraws, palming the back of Holden’s head to bring their faces closer. He’s smirking in that knowing fashion he has, his gaze burrowing deep into Holden’s.

“There,” he says, “now I've killed you.”

Kemper brings their mouths together. He kisses like an unsure thirteen-year-old boy, forceful but clumsy. His glasses bump Holden’s forehead. Holden moves for the first time in what seems like years. With fingertips on Kemper’s jaw, he guides the murderer deeper into the kiss. He tells himself it’s self-preservation, giving the lumbering killer what he wants, but at the same time the contact sends a jolt throughout his whole body. Kemper has planted one hand on Holden’s back, the other is tangled possessively in Holden’s hair. Any second he could jerk Holden’s head back and apply teeth. Picturing it sends a thrill of terror down Holden’s spine, and he moans against Kemper’s mouth. Kemper presses harder into the kiss, sucking in Holden’s lip and teething it almost hard enough to break the skin. He presses their faces together until Holden struggles to breathe. Kemper doesn’t kiss. He  _ smothers. _

In a show of small mercy, Kemper withdraws. Holden sucks in air, trying not to choke. His bottom lip swells. Kemper is looking at his reddened face with a sullen satisfaction, as if looking over a dog leashed tightly in the yard. By degrees his expression relaxes until once more it is the shadowy blank that is his default.

Kemper reaches forward and runs his index finger over Holden’s bottom lip. He proffers his left arm, stitched scar and all, to Holden. Holden barely dares to breathe as he touches the damaged tissue with his lips. Kemper sighs through his nose. His other hand creeps to Holden’s shoulder to give a comforting squeeze.

“You will come back and visit again?” It’s not really a question.

Holden nods. 

Kemper mirrors the nod, dropping his gaze as he turns to sit back on the bed. The bedframe groans with his weight. He sits with his legs casually spread, elbows resting on thighs, a benevolent buddha gazing over his subjects.

Feeling comes back to Holden’s body. He sprints from the room, down the hall, and collapses. Tench’s words swim around in his head:  _ your attitude is gonna bite you in the ass. It’s gonna bite you. It’s gonna bite _ —


End file.
